


The Only One Worth Seeing

by gonan



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Prison AU, Rating will go up, Slow Burn, no beta we die like men, not really much of an au for them is it, tbd if i’m going to abandon this in shame, this was not my idea i take no credit for jordyn’s genius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonan/pseuds/gonan
Summary: Mickey is a reporter from the north side interviewing inmates at Beckman State Penitentiary for a documentary his station is putting together. He didn’t think any part of the process would necessarily be easy, but he certainly didn’t expect to be falling for one of the felons he’d be meeting with.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75





	1. Said That I’d Be Something Special

**Author's Note:**

> happy gallavich wedding eve! this is just kind of a sample of @mysticonceaf ‘s idea from instagram - I don’t know if anyone would actually want me to be the one to do it. I’ve been waiting for someone more talented to try it out...but alas...
> 
> the main and chapter titles are both song lyrics. try @ing me about being a cliche and I will forcibly delete your kneecaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something in those burning green eyes that made the hair on the back of Mickey’s neck stand on end. In what way, he couldn’t be sure.

As soon as he saw the fence come into view from the road, towering menacingly above the tops of the trees with its sharp rings of barbed wire, the breeze flowing through his open window turned sour. It ruffled the top of his hair with icy fingers and rolled sickeningly down his spine. He swallowed roughly, rolling it shut and fiddling with his car radio. The damn thing was so old you had to pound on it to get it to read your discs. Right now he just wanted it off though, the rattling of the button being repeatedly pressed and his low “fuck” not quite doing the trick. He knocked the side of it. Once, twice. Silence. He let go of a slow breath. His fingers shook on the wheel as he turned into the entrance.

A man in a bright orange vest directed him to an open parking space. Mickey lifted his hand in acknowledgement and pulled into it. As soon as he had killed the engine, he rested his head on the horn with minimal pressure so as not to trigger it. His stomach was swimming. He did anything he could not to focus on the blue and green spots of light floating behind his eyes; the movement further nauseated him. He tried to remember how that breathing pattern was supposed to go. In through the nose for four, hold for seven, out through the mouth for eight? Well, that wasn’t working, so he had to assume he’d gotten it wrong. There was a real danger of puking in his near future, but he couldn’t stay in his car forever. He had appointments to keep. So, after a few slightly more successful attempts at slowing his breathing, he grabbed his notebook from its place on the passenger seat and tucked it under his arm as he walked up to the entrance of the visitor’s building.

Mickey approached the front desk and listed off all of the names of the people he’d be visiting with. Signed all of the necessary forms, answered all of the questions the security personnel asked him. He showed them his driver’s license before stowing his wallet and phone away in one of the lockers along the wall.

He went through the procedures like they were second nature. A knee jerk reaction. You tap him with a hammer, he flinches. You take him to Beckman State Penitentiary, he empties his pockets and holds his arms out for the security wand.

This wasn’t his first time visiting someone in prison. It would, however, be his first time visiting people he didn’t know. Having second thoughts wouldn’t do any favors for his nerves now - but then, anyone who knew Mickey knew that he wasn’t prone to cutting himself any slack. 

As he stood waiting for the guard to retrieve the first inmate he was set to interview, he was in the beginning stages of what his sister liked to call “dwelling”. Or even “ruminating” now that she was in college. Two years into an English degree and the little shit wouldn’t let him forget it. 

The last time he’d set foot in these halls, he'd been nearly fifteen. He remembered nearly everything about that day. Right down to the stupid details. He’d worn a red gingham scarf. His foster mom had given him money for the vending machines. But amongst them all, he almost forgot the only important part. The only one that mattered. His brother had told him at the end of their visit to stop coming to see him.

“You don’t need to deal with this shit, Mickey,” he’d said. “You and Mandy, you’ve got something good going for yourselves. Don’t let the Milkovich name weigh you down out there.”

A single tear track had fallen down his cheek, but he’d listened. He nodded, set down the phone, and walked away without looking back.

Now Mickey had broken his promise, and as punishment he was getting blinded by the overhead fluorescent lights that seemed to bounce off of every available surface around him for the express purpose of searing straight into his corneas. The low noise of people talking behind a door added to the din in his head - his short breaths, distant footsteps, the buzzing of the lights. His foot was tapping an anxious rhythm on the linoleum and the cap of his pen was dented and wet inside his mouth from being chewed on. He wasn’t patient by nature. This would take some getting used to, if he was to be doing this on a regular basis.

Maybe his boss was right to be wary of having Mickey be the one to conduct the interviews. 

He had been told that the camera crew would be meeting him there, arriving earlier to endure a much more rigorous screening of their equipment and authorizations. Mickey didn’t envy them; more security would have meant more time to nervously _ruminate_ on just what he was getting himself into.

He was a damn good reporter, and he knew it. He didn’t have the nasty, hardened disposition of someone born and raised in the south side, but he was nearly as stubborn as Mandy - which was saying something - and he wasn’t about to take anyone’s shit. Criminals didn’t intimidate him any more than the average person did. The station wanted these stories, and he was going to get them.

That was what he’d been repeating to himself the whole drive over, anyway, but he’d forgotten to factor in just how fucking awful he was with people.

He wasn’t used to talking much. Didn’t like to. When he tried he could never find the right words, and he always ended up looking even dumber than he was after stumbling through a half-coherent version of what he'd wanted to say. At his job he got to write things out beforehand. Or someone else did. Interviews had a basic structure to them, but as was the nature of conversation, they could lead into uncharted territory at any moment. 

Thankfully, mercifully, when the crew arrived and they began their first interview, it went much smoother than he had expected. The crotchety old man was belligerent and uncooperative, but the crew told Mickey that they could work with that. It helped to have people he knew from work there to lean on when he found himself floundering - not to mention the guards to haul him away when he started trying to hound Mickey for commissary money.

And after that, he was able to get into the swing of things. The next guy was entirely more pleasant, and the third gave off a creepy vibe that was just subtle enough to ignore. No tricks, no extortion, nothing of note. He gradually became comfortable not only with the dull space he was granted to speak to the prisoners, but with the inmates themselves, even going as far as to assure the friendly drug addict that he would return for another session soon.

Considering the location, maybe he had gotten a bit too comfortable.

His final interview of the day then came like a shock of cold water when the door opened and a man was walked into the room by three guards.

Unlike the other inmates he’d interviewed, this man was neither harmless nor was his bravado a well-placed facade. He could tell after five seconds in the room with the man that he could snap Mickey in half if the urge struck. His arms and shoulders strained against the short sleeves of his yellow jumpsuit, chest wide and heaving with restrained power. He was taller than everyone in the room, and his hair sat like a pyre atop his head, the connotations of such a blaze coming through with the way it licked his forehead in frenzied disarray. 

A raised white scar cut across the left side of his face, starting high on his forehead and cutting off over his eyebrow before continuing down his cheek. It came to a stop under his nose, just grazing his upper lip. It couldn’t have been made by anything other than a knife.

When their gazes met, the man lifted his chin in silent challenge. He raked his eyes down Mickey’s body and back to size him up. When his inspection ended with a soft scoff and a shake of the head, Mickey knew that he had just been written off as innocuous.

There was something in those burning green eyes that made the hair on the back of Mickey’s neck stand on end. In what way, he couldn’t be sure. The trouble they promised wouldn’t be an issue - the long chain cuffing his hands and feet together saw to that. As two of the guards led him to sit in the chair across from Mickey, the other pulled out a set of keys to undo a padlock secured to the metal ring on the table between them. His chains were looped tightly through it and the guard tested their give before locking him into place. The man’s large freckled hands now rested in the middle of the table, palms open and fingers upright like a flower floating on the still surface of a pond. Bruises bloomed on his knuckles in greens and light purples. They looked like a Monet.

His staring earned him the loud jolt of a guard clearing her throat. He reared his head back, the movement causing him to blink harshly as he came into contact with the bright strip of light on the ceiling. The whole room was starting to hurt his head. Every brick was painted the same godawful beige.

“Mr. Gallagher. My name is Mickey Milkovich. I-“ he shifted in his seat as he looked up at the guards and it squeaked loudly. He winced. “Have you been told what we're going to be doing here?”

The man raised a single eyebrow. Mickey didn’t know how such a small movement could send a cold chill through his bones, but it managed to do just that. “Mister? Fuck, what is this? A business meeting?” His voice was gravelly with disuse, and it was commanding even when he spoke in jest.

Mickey’s throat clicked on a breath. “No. No, it’s - I’m sorry, what should I call you?” He rushed out. God forbid he already give this terrifying man a reason to dislike him.

“Just Gallagher is fine,” he said. Thankfully, he sounded more amused than anything. 

“Right. Right. Alright,” Mickey nodded along to his own nonsense. “So. You understand the...nature of the questions that I’m going to be asking you?”

The man seemed to ignore him completely when he asked, “And what should I call you?” His scorching gaze lit on Mickey’s again, head tilting with the question. 

Mickey’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. One. Two. Three. Three long seconds of silence sounded before he was able to work his mouth open to say the words, “Do you have any water around here?”

One of the guards eyed the others, exiting the room when they nodded towards him. A moment later he returned with a small paper cup of fountain water. Mickey thanked him as he took the cup and drained it in one gulp.

Gallagher smirked slightly at the other end of the table. Fuck. He knew he was getting to Mickey, and that would lose him any of the meager authority he seemed to have in this situation.

“You can call me Mickey. Or Milkovich. Mr. Milkovich - whatever you want,” and fuck, that certainly wasn’t going to help him take control over the conversation.

Gallagher pressed his lips together slightly. His expression appeared thoughtful. “Let’s just keep this simple then. Mickey,” He settled back into his chair, legs spreading carelessly. He took up as much space as possible without even trying. “God knows they don’t tell me much around here. I’m told to go somewhere, I go.”

Surprised at the opportunity to get the ball rolling in the direction he’d been nudging it, Mickey folded open his notebook full of questions and prompts. “I’m a reporter from abc7,” he explained. “We’re putting together a documentary on the lives of Beckman inmates. Their backgrounds, lifestyles, and, well...”

“What they’re in for,” Gallagher finished for him, fingers tapping on the chain attached to his wrists. He didn’t appear angered at the prospect of discussing his record. Mickey breathed a small sigh of relief.

“Basically,” he said, picking up his pen from the tabletop and bringing it to rest against his lips. It was taking everything in him not to put it in his mouth and gnaw anxiously on the cap again. “Would you be alright with being interviewed and recorded on camera?”

Gallagher shifted up to his full height in his chair. “I wasn’t aware that I had a choice,” he said, a playful edge cutting though his intimidating demeanor. Mickey offered him an apologetic smile. “But sweet of you to ask.”

The tips of Mickey’s ears burned with embarrassment. He signaled towards the door and the small production crew filtered in, wasting no time setting up as they had been throughout the day. Gallagher’s eyes didn’t leave his during the process. Prolonged exposure to his heavy stare didn’t seem to lessen the effects of its intensity. Mickey shifted in his seat again and the same pronounced squeak echoed through the room. A dead giveaway. Fuck the pen, he needed a nervous smoke like nobody’s business. 

“We’re ready,” one of the cameramen gave him the okay, and he schooled his features into calm indifference.

“Alright. Please state your full name and sentence,” he said. The pen and notebook were laid flat on the table out of sight of the cameras. His questions were open to consult when he needed to, but he almost wished he could angle them away so that the other man didn’t have an opening to glance over at them. 

“Ian Gallagher. Eight years for attempted murder.”

Mickey swallowed. He had known this already, but hearing the man say it still had an effect on him. “And how much of your sentence have you already served?”

“Five and a half years. Give or take,” he blew a strand of hair from his brow casually, as if he hadn’t just revealed that he’d spent a fifth of his life behind bars. 

The thought of this man planning a murder fresh out of his teens set Mickey’s stomach on edge. He had to have been much smaller than he was now. Shorter, skinnier - maybe even still peppered with a stray smattering of acne. “So...you were convicted when you were twenty years old?”

“Sounds about right,” Gallagher said, hard gaze daring him to say something about it. 

“Okay,” Mickey managed to keep the shock out of his voice. “Would you mind telling me about the events that led to your arrest?”

“I don’t put out on the first date.”

Mickey blinked. “Ex...excuse me?”

“Let’s work up to that, yeah? You’re gonna be coming back here aren’t you?” The amused grin on his face told Mickey loud and clear that Gallagher was enjoying himself. His jaw clenched against the now grating urge for a cigarette. But he supposed that, somewhere underneath all the cockiness, the man must be wary to share so much personal information with a stranger. He resigned himself to the answer and accepted that he would need to ease the truth out gradually.

“Yes,” Mickey said. His finger found the edge of his pen on the table. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Gallagher seemed delighted by the question. Without missing a beat, he folded his hands together and leaned forward with feeling. “Tell me about you. What’s your story, Mickey?”

“Me?” His eyes went wide. He looked from the crew to the guards, neither giving him anything he would work with. The man across from him waited patiently for an answer. But what could he say to that? Where did he even start? There was nothing of interest in his life that could hold a candle to someone who’d nearly 86’ed a guy in cold blood. “No story.”

“No story at all?” Gallagher‘s face scrunched in disbelief. “So, what? You just plopped down from the sky in front of a prison fully formed and decided to walk in and interview criminals?”

Mickey ran a hand through his sweat damp hair. He was not going to be let off so easily, it appeared. “Of course not. I grew up on the north side,” Mostly, anyway. “Went to NIU for journalism. Got a job as a reporter. There’s your story.”

“That’s not a story. Those are bullet points,” Gallagher said. The condescending edge to his tone made the reporter’s hackles raise. He was right, but Mickey wasn’t any more inclined to give out personal information than Gallagher was.

“Well...” he deemed it appropriate to throw the other man’s words back in his face. “Let’s work up to that. Alright?”

Evidently sensing the building tension, Gallagher conceded. “Fair enough,” he jerked his head in the direction of Mickey’s notes. “What’s the next question in your little book?”

Mickey pursed his lips together. A cursory glance at the chicken scratch numbered list led him to ask, “What does the average day look like for you?”

“You mean aside from being interviewed by yuppie north side reporters?”

Mickey’s clenched lips twitched in a valiant attempt at a smile, but he suppressed it at the last minute. “Yes. Aside from that.”

Gallagher made as if he was deeply considering the question. He put on a real show, tapping his foot and squinting heavenward with a surprising amount of dramatic flair for someone who could crush Mickey’s head between his thighs like a watermelon.

“I get up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. Shower. Eat shitty food. Work in the infirmary. Eat more shitty food. Work more. Work out. Shitty food. Read. Argue with my stupid fuckin’ cell mate. Lights out,” he ticked each activity off on his fingers.

Mickey took pause as he processed all that information. What he came up with in the end was, “You read?”

Gallagher shrugged. “All the fuckin’ time, man.”

“What do you read?”

“Well, I’ve read just about everything they’ve got in here by now,” he said ruefully. “But right now I’m rereading War and Peace.”

Mickey was pleasantly surprised that the man was more intelligent than he appeared to be. “That’s...that’s a long one.”

“It is,” the man agreed.

“It’s, uh. One of my favorites,” Mickey said, the admission making his throat tingle as if he had caught a sudden cold.

Gallagher studied the pallor of his face. “Why do you talk so quietly?” he asked.

Mickey flinched at the question. His hand inched towards the pen lying innocently next to it, dying to stick anything in his mouth other than his foot right now. “I’m—” he laughed hoarsely. “I don’t know. Who’s supposed to be interviewing who right now?”

Gallagher opened his mouth as if he were about to say something.

“Alright,” one of the guards motioned to another, who started unlocking Gallagher from the table. The third hauled him to his feet, and Mickey’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’m sorry, I thought we were allowed 90 minutes at a time?”

“Not today,” the guard hauling Gallagher away nudged him forwards with his shoulder. With their height difference, it was almost comical. “He’s gotta take his meds.”

Mickey’s confusion grew even more with that; he knew how shoddy medical care on the inside was. Years ago when his brother Jamie had gotten into a brawl in the yard with someone twice his size, they wouldn’t even let him near any painkillers for his broken arm after it had been put into a cast.

He resisted asking what the medication was for - it could end up being a touchy subject. The guards didn’t seem too keen to stick around and answer questions anyhow. He stood, gathering his notebook and pen and nodded to the crew to start packing things up.

Before he got to the door, Gallagher glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with Mickey. He raised one hand to wave and the other came with it. “Until next time, Mr. Milkovich.”

Mickey’s fingers twitched at his side as he watched the man’s teasing smile follow him out into the hallway.

Four breaths in. Hold for seven. Release for eight.

It still wasn’t working. 

*

The drive back to his apartment seemed to take longer than the commute to Beckman had. He chain-smoked out the window, savoring the burn of nicotine that quelled the itch that had cropped up in his throat. Mickey knew he still had to pop back into the office later to give his boss a report, but he needed some time to relax and regroup before he would be ready to see anyone else today.

His apartment was small, as was any place for rent in such a big city, but since it sat on the edge of a neighboring town it was far cheaper and cozier than a high rise studio downtown would be. The entryway didn’t allow enough space for shoes, so he removed his loafers on the mat and took them with him down the semi-hallway to his bedroom. It was the biggest room in the apartment, maybe even bigger than his living room. It looked it anyway. Whereas his living room was stuffed with a couch and a tv and a beanbag chair for Mandy, his bedroom was as minimal furniture-wise as he could manage to make it. His bed sat in the middle of the room against the wall with the door, a single lamp atop the nightstand by the window. The window itself was huge, taking up most of the left wall with its billowing dark blue curtains. Mickey walked across the room to his overflowing closet and chucked his shoes somewhere inside of it.

Jules met him back in the hallway, chattering quietly at his socked feet. Mickey’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “Can I help you, sir?”

He got a knee full of claws in answer as Jules stood on his hind legs to paw at Mickey’s pants. The damn cat always acted starving whenever he came back from work. He reached down to carefully unhook each nail from his jeans and clapped loudly in lieu of a dinner gong. 

“Alright, fucking gremlin, get in there then,” he said, motioning towards the kitchen. The cat turned on its heel with a flourish and ran the rest of the way towards its bowl. “I got it, I got it,” Mickey replied as the soft meows turned piercing.

Before he got to work on the main dish he refilled the other bowl with fresh water. Once that was done, Mickey steeled himself, pinching his nose between two fingers as he opened the fridge and extricated a half-full tin of Fancy Feast. The stubborn little fucker wouldn’t eat unless he mixed wet food in with the dry food, and the stuff smelled awful. Mickey had to mash it with the back of a spoon to force it out of the solid gelatinous mold it held in the can.

En route to the sink he tripped over his underfoot cat and spilled the nasty seafood flavored broth all down his front. A mixture between a groan and a gag left his mouth. He’d really need a shower after this.

“Soup’s on,” he dumped the remainder of the pink liquid down the drain and threw the can in the recycling bin. The cat’s meal was transferred quickly from the counter to the floor so as not to incur further injury. He scratched at a large black spot on the cat’s back as it folded its gangly limbs to sit in front of the bowl.

With that done, Mickey removed his soiled clothes on his way down the hall, throwing them straight into the bathroom hamper with a huff. He didn’t even bother waiting to heat up the water before he turned on the shower head and stepped into the stall. The cold stream was grounding, a welcome distraction that provided him with something to focus on other than his job.

But of course the topic returned. It always did. The sharp sting of shampoo running into his eyes reminded him of the painful work ahead of him at the office. A lengthy conversation about each of his interview subjects was sure to come, one that he would need to chase with several aspirin.

Part of his report today would include discussing who seemed the most receptive to a repeat visit within the week. Mickey had been feeling each of the inmates out during their interviews, and he had a decent feeling about the former meth user that he’d spoken with - guy was a good sport, and he always fluidly filled the awkward gaps in conversation when Mickey’s own social skills fell short.

Ian Gallagher, however, would be a much harder sell. His boss had been hesitant to include a violent offender among the list of subjects for their documentary, but Mickey had been able to convince her over the course of an excruciatingly long meeting that there should be no holds barred in the inception of this film. Along with a money launderer and a sex trafficker, their bases would mostly be covered as far as crime went. And to be honest, as imposing as the man’s intense brand of confidence was, he had been surprisingly amenable to being interviewed. Mickey was eager to hear the entirety of his story. When he grew comfortable enough to offer it up, that is.

He would have to call in the big guns for this one. An iced coffee from the artisan cafe down the street wouldn’t be enough - he’d have to hoof it three blocks over to the Panera and bring his boss a scone or a bear claw. Or both. If nothing else, she would admire his dedication to getting another interview with Gallagher.

He just hoped that his efforts wouldn’t prove to be all for naught.


	2. And It Felt Great to Be a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica’s warning rang in his ears every time he started to overthink it, that simple “you don’t know if they’re lying to you” playing on an endless loop that wrapped itself around his mind like a thick rubber band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. hi. i had no motivation to write this for the longest time because i built it up in my head as some big scary monster that needed hella plotting and...i am a lazy motherfucker. but i reread the first chapter the other day and i started to miss the lil guy. plus i keep just ignoring what my readers want to see and writing whatever the hell oneshot that i want so i don’t get burnt out - but this is the story i always get the most requests to continue. bone apple tea!

“No way.”

It was the answer he’d been expecting, but that didn’t mean that it was any less frustrating to hear spoken aloud. Mickey chewed on the edge of his dry lip, teeth catching on a flake of dead skin. So much for his master plan of saccharine bribery. The blueberry scone he’d brought over for the occasion sat untouched in its crinkly brown packaging, and the proffered coffee had only served to add a caffeinated edge to their conversation.

“Veronica. Please,” he said, palms held up submissively towards his boss. The tap of her heels hitting each other under her desk from where she was no doubt jiggling her crossed ankles told him all he needed to know. Her legs only got restless like that when she was nervous or pissed. He was guessing this time it was a little bit of both. 

“Uh-uh. I don’t know if you’ve got some kinda death wish, but honey, I am not gonna be the one to fund it. Not on the station’s dime, not on my dime, hell, not even on yours,” she raised both eyebrows to a clear point. He huffed slightly. That was  _ his _ power move. 

“Come on, V. The guy’s alright. He’s just a little…” he couldn’t seem to find the proper words to describe Gallagher, not without having the man in the room with them. The sheer strength of his presence spoke for itself. “Rough around the edges.”

Veronica sat forward in her chair, pointing one long blue fingernail at his chest. “Oh, hell no. ‘V’ is for my friends. My friends that I’m not angry with,” so that was where he stood - good to know, “all I see in front of me now is a deadman walking that some psycho lunatic has lured into a false sense of security with his pretty little eyes and freckled cheekbones.”

“It’s not about that,  _ Ms. Fisher _ ,” he said, feigning an eye roll and smirking at hers when she caught his over dramatic emphasis on her title. “He’s such a fascinating case study. You’ve read his file, right? I’m assuming that’s how you know what he looks like,” her unimpressed snort didn’t deter him. “All I’m asking for is another session on Thursday to keep the momentum I’ve got with him going. I’ll already be there for Jasper Lee anyway.”

“A guy caught smoking meth under the L and someone who almost bludgeoned a man twice his age and size to death with a baseball bat are two very different beasts,” Veronica said, making entirely too much sense for him to see the scales tipping in his favor anytime soon.

He scratched at the skin above his temple with a thumbnail. “I know, but -“

“Did I mention he lit the guy’s house on fire to finish the job before he fled from the cops? Do I  _ have _ to mention that?” She leaned back again, finally unfolding the bag holding her scone just to take an agitated bite of it to emphasize her point. “He got off on the arson charge because he pleaded insanity. Which, by the way, is probably why he got carted off in the middle of your interview. Had to take his crazy pills.”

Mickey exhaled slowly through his nose. This had always been a sensitive topic for him after finding out that both he and Mandy had residual PTSD from what their father did to them as kids. He had never wanted to make a big deal out of it - that wasn’t how he was raised - but he still woke sweating buckets from nightmares of how some of his scars had formed often enough to flinch whenever someone wrote a mental illness off as craziness. 

“He was completely coherent when I talked to him,” he said, a touch of defensiveness seeping into his otherwise even tone.

Veronica swallowed her bit of pastry down with a dry click of her throat and a patient blink. Mickey could tell that she’d been able to read his discomfort instantly, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. That’s part of why she was so good at her job. “They only let you plead insanity if you’re psychotic. If he’s lucid that means that the medication is working. Who knows for how long though,” she set her scone down on her desk with the bag serving as a makeshift plate to catch crumbs. Her eyes sought out his, and a gentle sigh blew through her lips before they turned up to form a small smile. “I know you, Mickey. You’re smarter than this. Why are you pushing so hard? You’re gonna see him next week.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking, what he had been thinking ever since he’d initially seen the man’s address in his file and noticed it was right down the street from his old house, but the words hovered in the silence between them nonetheless.  _ He reminds me of me. Who I could have become if I’d stayed on the south side. He deserves a chance to escape all of that bullshit just as much as I did. _

Mickey instead opted to appeal to her rational side, something that always worked better when it came to Veronica. “We need as much information from him as possible to build a concrete story. The more time I spend with him, the more comfortable he’ll be with me, and the more he’ll be inclined to share about himself,” he held her wary gaze, blue on brown, catching the exact moment that they began softening at the edges. Bingo. That was what she’d needed to hear. Just to seal the deal, he leaned forward and folded his hands together on top of her desk. “If I’m so smart, don’t you trust that I can handle this? That I know what I’m doing?”

Veronica scoffed. Turning the question back on her was a low blow, but a necessary one all the same. A smirk pressed insistently at the muscles of his cheeks as he watched her readjust in her chair; he’d gotten her, hook, line, and sinker. “You know I do, you prick,” she said, leveling him with a half-hearted glare. Her fingers tapped on the top of her folder a couple times before snatching it up and flipping it open to the document with the prison’s security line on it. Mickey’s victorious smirk only grew when he watched her pick up the bulky phone on the end of her desk, balancing it in the crook of her shoulder as she dialed the number. “I’ll set it up with Beckman. But I’m only gonna say this to you once: don’t go believing everything these people say. You don’t know if they’re lying to you for some sympathy from their parole board.”

Mickey nodded along to her advice. It wasn’t something he hadn’t considered before, but he’d been around enough criminals to know when one was lying. Not to mention that he’d grown up with the master of falsehoods herself — there was a particularly rebellious phase that Mandy had gone through in her freshman year of high school where she’d wanted to do everything that her friends did, from piercing every square inch of her face to sneaking out on the weekends to party with upperclassmen. If he could single out the minuscule tells of a determined teenage girl dead set on intimidating her foster parents into believing everything she said, he was confident that a few shifty-eyed felons would be a walk in the park. 

Veronica picked up the phone as it started ringing, eyes darting back up to Mickey with a playful sharpness. “Now wipe that smug look off your face and get the hell out of my office,” she said, shooing him away with her free hand. 

He didn’t need to be told twice. Mickey mouthed a silent  _ ‘thank you _ ,’ on his way out and was already halfway through the door by the time her call went through.

*

His weekly visit to the grocery store by his apartment came early when he noticed that he was out of cat food. To avoid the full blown coup Jules was sure to stage should he come home empty-handed, he popped by on his way from work the next day to stock up on meals for the both of them. He went to the pet store first just in case he decided to pick up any frozen food for himself, and by the time he made it to the checkout aisle loaded down with produce and ready-made dinners he was sure that his cat had at least torn down the curtains (again) in his impatience.

Veronica had worn Mickey down with constant busywork ever since approving his second visit, almost using it as some strange form of retribution for coaxing a victory from her stubborn grasp. He was thankful for it, though, as it afforded him less spare time to worry himself into a hole over the upcoming interview. His life mainly revolved around work, and when he wasn’t sitting around with Jules or talking to his family on the phone, he was thinking about every meeting he had to schedule and every email he had to send. It’d been working out well enough for him so far, but sometimes it got to be a little much — especially with a project like this. Maybe he should take up a hobby. Something relaxing, like hot yoga.

When Mickey shuffled forward to set his things on the conveyor belt, he heard the flustered voice of a young woman in the next lane over, asking for a rescan of her declined card. His eyes slipped over to discreetly observe the scene. He understood the poor woman’s predicament; he’d had his fair share of panicked moments such as those in college. In line at the Jewel in his small town, sunglasses covering his aching eyes after an ill-advised night out, struggling to afford a few packages of cup ramen with what he could scrape together from his campus job. It was a lot different from the plight of a teenage mother struggling to make ends meet, he knew that, but he remembered hunger well enough from his childhood to breathe a sympathetic sigh of relief as the card went through nonetheless. 

A little girl stood next to the woman, her big green eyes fixed on Mickey already. He managed a half smile of acknowledgement as if to apologize for prying. He’d never been good with kids — never been good with adults, really. But when he smiled the girl’s face split into a wide grin of her own, one of her front teeth missing and the rest as tiny as a row of baby corn.

“Come on, Franny,” the girl’s mother said, urging her along with a soft pat to her shoulder. 

“Lemme get one, mama,” the kid said, reaching up with grabby hands for one of the bags her mom was juggling. “I’m big and strong just like you and Aunty Fi.”

The woman smiled down at her. “You sure are. When did that happen, huh? Here,” She ruffled her daughter’s head with a freckled hand and passed over one of the lighter bags. The girl took it with great care, holding it out in front of her as far as her little hands could stretch like it might detonate if she jostled it too much. Mickey snorted softly at the serious expression on her face.

The little girl looked over at him once more as she followed the woman out of the store, too-big head wobbling on her shoulders. Mickey tossed her a small wave in parting. That same toothy smile broke out again before she toddled off, almost toppling over from the weight of the bag when her mother leaned down to hold one of her hands.

The bored, “How are you today, sir?” of the teenager bagging his groceries brought his attention back up front. He mumbled out an equally noncommittal response and pushed the end of his debit card into the chip reader, pressing down the buttons that asked for his membership and pin numbers. Once he was asked to remove his card he occupied himself with tapping his foot along to the annoyingly upbeat song playing throughout the store. His receipt was long, giving him ample time to glance around as it printed, but there was nothing particularly interesting to look at now that he was alone with the cashier. The girl and her mother were gone, and their faces were already beginning to blur in his mind.

*

When he wasn’t physically at work, Mickey watched the old court tapes he’d brought home after Veronica gave her okay and continued his research from the comfort of his stained couch cushions. The brown suede shifted under his fingers now as a grainy figure appeared onscreen: an Ian Gallagher that was just as wide-eyed and baby-faced as he’d imagined him. Jules purred next to the hand tracing patterns in the soft fabric, the sound drawing Mickey’s fingers into the animal’s fur like a vibrational pull.

A voice on the tape spoke in a garbled monotone. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” came the muffled response. He stood at the podium with that same wide stance Mickey recognized from their previous encounter, telling him that the man had been every bit as unyielding and confident then as he was now. Maybe not quite so tough yet; there was still a slight shake in his shoulders, a defeated set to his features. He was young. Too young. This was the face of a boy who was about to get locked up in his prime for a crime that would follow him for the rest of his life, whether he liked it or not. The fear in his eyes for whatever form of punishment the long arm of the law would see fit to dole out upon him was all too understandable.

It felt like a sort of betrayal, watching this before he’d built up the trust he’d promised Gallagher. But Veronica’s warning rang in his ears every time he started to overthink it, that simple  _ you don’t know if they’re lying to you _ playing on an endless loop that wrapped itself around his mind like a thick rubber band.

It took him several moments to realize that the ringing was not just in his head. The sound sent Jules’s ears pointing back, glaring over at the phone vibrating across the coffee table until Mickey had the sense to scramble for it. He caught the call just in time, a flustered, “This is Mickey,” all he could muster before the person on the other end of the line cut in with their own curt greeting.

“Hey asshat.”

He and Mandy talked on the phone every Sunday morning like clockwork. It had become an unspoken tradition ever since he left for school, continuing on through the years until Mandy went to college herself. They’d only ever missed the appointment in case of grave emergency or impending finals — and really, was there any difference? — but never felt the need to call each other outside of their set timeframe of 10am - 2pm, and certainly not on any other day of the week. Mickey couldn’t help the itching pit of concern forming in his chest. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He said with a grunt, the one he knew his sister hated and never failed to earn its own answering groan. It sounded now as he settled back into the cushions, a shit-eating grin sat comfortably on his face. He hoped it would lessen some of the tension gnawing gently on his nerves before Mandy inevitably barreled into the topic at hand. 

“Mom told me you’re gonna be trolling around Beckman for the next few months,” she said, a sour edge to the words that Mickey picked up on right away. So that’s why she’d called. He rubbed at his eyebrow with a thumb and gave a long sigh. Fuck him for worrying about her. She’d probably just rung up to yell at him.

“It’s for work,” he said, already prepared for a fight he was sure she’d put up. But Mandy surprised him, as she often did, by seeming not to give a flying fuck about it at all.

“I know that, dumbass,” He could almost hear her sneer on the other end, just like he could tell it was done through a sheen of dark red lipstick. “You gonna visit Jamie?”

Mickey’s blood took on the consistency of a slushie in a straw as it sloughed through his veins at an icy crawl. Of all the reasons he could’ve come up with for her to call on a Wednesday afternoon, this was the last one he would’ve expected. Or at least, the last he would’ve hoped for. “He’s back in?”

“Yeah. Shot up some empty laundromat in the neighborhood. The owner owed him money or something. He’s getting two years for destruction of property and firing an unlicensed weapon in a public space,” She sounded almost indifferent as she said it, but he knew how good she was at concealing every ounce of emotion from her voice when she talked about their years on the south side. Mickey had always been more attached to the place, for whatever reason, but Mandy was attached to the people. Jamie might be a dumbass, but he was still family in her eyes.

That sentiment extended to every member but one.

“How...how do you know that?” It was a stupid question. There were only a few people who would have known, period, and only one who would tell Mandy without having to be prodded or threatened. 

“ _ I _ still talk to Iggy, you dick,” she said, an accusatory edge to the words. The venom in her tone came at a nonlethal dose, just enough to burn without knocking him out.

“So do I!” He said defensively, though he hadn’t done so for a few months now with how busy work had been. 

“About Jamie. About everyone,” Mandy said pointedly. Mickey rolled his eyes. They could go on like this for hours, and probably would if they both weren’t so blunt with each other that it often bordered on assholery. “You gonna visit him while you’re over there?” She asked again, and he knew she wouldn’t let up on it until he gave a straight answer.

“I don’t know, Mands. He told me not to,” he said, gnawing on the center of his lip until a small bubble of blood formed. He had been thinking about his brother more often than he’d like to admit ever since production for the documentary took off. He could still remember the exact words Jaime had said to him, the way his lips had moved around them and the gust of fatigued air that had followed them out of his mouth.  _ Look, don’t come back here, alright? _

It was more of a plea than a command.

That was something Mandy didn’t get. Leaving people alone. Respecting their wishes. So he wasn’t exactly shocked when she scoffed at his hesitance.

“Yeah, like twelve years ago.”

“Still. I don’t know if he’d want me to,” Mickey said, returning to drawing inane shapes on the softness of his couch. Jules looked at him indignantly from his spot on the opposite cushion.

“It’s better to at least try, right?”

“Maybe,” he said, quiet now as he tried to imagine himself actually doing it. Stepping out into that courtyard and seeing Jamie face to face after all this time. The picture it conjured sat wrong with him, almost real but not real enough. It was somewhere in the middle, some uncanny valley shit that sent chills down his bare arm.

But Mandy wasn’t going to change her mind, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he would either.

Apparently irritated by his waffling, she spoke again, somehow managing to make it sound as if she’d cut him off when he’d already finished talking. “Whatever. I have to get ready to meet my study group. I just called to tell you,” he heard rather than saw her flip a section of dark hair over her shoulder, the telltale clack of her acrylic nails against one another giving the motion away. It was something she only did around him as a way to end a conversation with a dramatic flair, and only around others when she wanted to mock the sort of girls who did so to flirt. Mickey resigned himself to the haphazard conclusion with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah. Okay. Talk to you on Sunday?” He’d never said it outright before, but he supposed he’d never really needed to. Mandy’s pause stretched between them until it became a physical sound in his ears. “You know I’ll think about it. I’m not making any promises though.”

“Fucker,” she said in lieu of a goodbye, promptly hanging up on him before he could dare to respond.

Mickey’s breath left him all at once and returned all at once. The process was shaky and quite a bit shallower than what must be normal, and he once again wondered if there would be any merit to joining a class where they could actually teach him how to do the shit properly.

He needed to be taught how to do something that every single person on earth was born doing. Go figure.

When he looked up he saw that the old case tape was still playing on his screen, Ian Gallagher sitting stiffly at the witness stand in an ill-fitting suit. Mickey ran a tired hand through his hair at the reminder of his research. He was hardly in the mood to review the footage anymore. He felt around for the remote, arm almost robotic in its movements as it reached forward to click the tv off. Then, with the careless ease of a rubber ball being dropped to the ground, it flopped back to his side. Jules pushed up at his hand, satisfied now that he had enough of Mickey’s undivided attention to resume getting the pets he felt he deserved. Mickey patted at his head distractedly.

Now he had one more inmate to worry about come Thursday. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been a while since i’ve posted anything! i missed having the time to write. i’ve been on vacation for the past >2 weeks and it wasn’t very relaxing for obvious reasons — but at least i got to go to all the theme parks before they shut down! in the meantime i made a playlist of the songs i’m using for the titles to keep track of them and all of the lyrics tell the story from ian’s perspective chapter by chapter. should i drop a link? there’ll be spoilers if you listen closely ;)

**Author's Note:**

> if any of this is inaccurate at all: wig
> 
> setting it up for the slowest of burns. a painful burn. that slow cooker sizzle. 100k+ at least


End file.
